idiotprufs

Read by four out five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

Archive for the tag “idiocy”

An Idiot’s Bucket List

bucket

Evidently playing in the sand is on my bucket list.

I was recently asked what’s on my bucket list.

I told him I didn’t have any buckets, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t make a list of them. What am I, some kind of idiot?

I was informed that I am an idiot, and I clearly didn’t know what a bucket list was.

Note: it seems I was also confused about what a bucket is. Evidently chamber pots don’t count.

An idiot’s Bucket List

  • Have a conversation with an attractive woman that doesn’t end with me rinsing the pepper spray from my eyes.
  • Go on a date with an attractive woman.
  • Go on a date with any woman.
  • Overcome my crippling fear of dates (not the dried fruit).
  • Overcome my crippling fear of dates (the dried fruit).
  • Purchase a Ronco food dehydrator, enabling me to reduce a watermelon to the size of a pea without sacrificing an ounce of flavor or nutritional value.
  • I want to invent a machine that enlarges a pea to the size of a watermelon without adding an iota of flavor or nutritional value.
  • Obtain a level of maturity that allows me to not giggle uncontrollably every time I hear the name Lake Titicaca.
  • Obtain a level of maturity that allows me to not giggle uncontrollably every time I hear the word peninsula, because it reminds me of the word penis.

Note: etymologists claim the word peninsula has no derivation from the word penis. I am skeptical. Why are most peninsulas shaped like penis’s?

Entomologists also claim the word peninsula has no derivation from the word penis. But first they enlighten us with some fascinating facts about the Egyptian dung beetle. (Egypt: not a peninsula-not shaped like a penis. Just saying.)

  • I want to punch Justin Bieber in his smug little face.
  • I want to meet Justin Bieber, and subsequently punch him in his smug little face.
  • I want to be dining in a restaurant where Justin Bieber chokes on his meal, and I step in and heroicly save his life…so I can punch him in his smug little face.
  • I’d like to dine in a restaurant where they know me, and there’s only a moderate chance my food will be spat in.
  • I want to go back to the days when I didn’t know what human saliva tastes like.
  • I want to ride a dolphin, but a porpoise will do.
  • I want to know the difference between a dolphin and a porpoise.
  • I want to operate a boat without every other passenger on the boat fearing for their lives.
  • I want to stand on the Great Wall of China, turn to person next to me, and declare, “let’s see the neighbor’s dog crap on my lawn now.”
  • I want to finish the Eiffel Tower, but do a really crappy job.
  • I want to make a mime talk…and if at all possible, cry.
  • I want to write an opera in Italian.
  • I want to learn how to write in Italian.
  • I want to make the fat lady sing, or at least choose a more sensible diet.
  • I want to discover indisputable evidence that Bigfoot exists, then destroy it, so I’m the only one who really knows.
  • I want to come up with an idea that leads to world peace.
  • I want to amend the previous item on this list.
  • I want to come up with an idea that makes me filthy rich, and if the whole world peace thing also happens, that’s fine too…I guess.
  • I just want a bucket. (But not to pee in, that’s a chamber pot.)

    chamber pot

    A chamber pot: the perfect place to put this list.

So I’ve Ruffled Some Feathers

 

mad baby

“My feathers have been sufficiently ruffled.”

It seems I’ve ruffled some feathers.

Some big, fat, whiny, bitchy, crybaby feathers.

It’s not that this blog hasn’t generated negative reactions in the past. It has, and that disapproval has been manifest in many forms:

  • Through the WordPress comments function.
  • By email.
  • Unfriending me on Facebook.
  • Friending me on Facebook for the sole purpose of unfriending me.
  • Tweeting about me with the hashtag: jackass.
  • Sniper fire.
  • I’ve been accosted by mimes. (They don’t say much, but their gesticulated scorn is withering.)
  • Women flee at the sight of me. (To be frank, this was happening long before I started this blog.)
  • Small children bite me with their sharp little adolescent teeth.
  • A vicious diatribe was nailed to my front door, written in blood. (This one surprised me; Grandma needs all the blood she has.)
  • Random baboon attacks.
  • Skywriting.
  • Strategically placed billboards with shockingly filthy messages.
  • The song “You Suck” is constantly being dedicated to me on the radio.
  • Vitriolic letters to the editor of The Bolivian Free Press. (The Bolivian Free Press is an odd name for a newspaper in a country where the primary language isn’t English. It’s almost as though I made it up.)
  • Llamas spit at me, then act like it was an accident.
  • I get junk mail addressed to: That Ass Who Writes The Blog.
  • The letters in my alphabet soup randomly form death threats.
  • I am frequently presented with that time honored and always effective middle finger.

But it was the following passage from a recent post, Home is Where the Heart is…and a Bit of Predator, in which I detailed reasons my hometown is awesome, that has caused the cheese to slide off the crackers of a few people:

Reason #4: my aunts and uncles

If modern cinema and television have taught us anything through mega-hits such as Harry Potter, Twilight, and The Walking Dead, it’s that witches, vampires, werewolves, and various incarnations of the undead, are quite popular in current culture.

The town of Westfield, NY is polluted with my aunts and uncles.

Note: you get what I’m implying.

It has been suggested that this passage is defamatory, and this blog is guilty of slander.

That is ridiculous–defamation in written form is clearly libel.

Note: seriously, if you don’t know the difference between slander and libel, you shouldn’t run around all willy-nilly accusing anyone of either.

Nevertheless, a few points of clarification.

None of my aunts or uncles are werewolves. Sure their behavior is a tad monstrous when the moon is full, but it’s monstrous during all phases of the moon. They’re not any better when the sun is up…I guess my point is it’s pretty much a perpetual state.

None of my aunts or uncles are vampires; they’re bloodsuckers of an entirely different ilk.

None of my aunts or uncles are members of the undead. The stench of rotting flesh that follows when they arrive, and their seeming inability to communicate in even monosyllabic fashion, are probably just coincidences.

Witches? Granted, I’m not referring to the type of stereotypical green-skinned, broom-traversing witches such the wicked witches from the Wizard of Oz.  However…

Note: if only I could dispatch them with a bucket of water.

Remember this one important thing: it isn’t libel if it’s true.

Addendum

Wouldn’t it be awesome to have a troop of flying monkeys to do your bidding?

flying monkey

A flying monkey toting Toto. (Not the rock group, he’d need a bigger basket.)

Rodeo Clowns, Boy Bands, and a Pissed Off Bull

“Is that N’ Sync I hear?”

Bulls are huge, powerfully built animals with menacing horns, devastating hooves, and an unflinching desire to be left alone.

Bull-riders, by comparison, are sweaty little cowboys who feel it’s heroic to climb onto the backs of bulls, regardless of how irritating it is to the bull.

Bulls have names like Destroyer, The Widow-Maker, and The Mauler.

Bull-riders have names like Bucky, Earl, and that guy who used have testicles.

Bulls are simple animals, content to stand around and chew their cud, occasionally pausing to pee on the dirt.

Bull-riders are simple people, content to stand around and chew tobacco, occasionally pausing to pee on the dirt.

The only thing in which bulls truly revel is inflicting life threatening injuries upon things that annoy them.

Bull-riders annoy them.

The only things that bulls hate more than bull-riders are rodeo clowns, the Kardashians, and boy bands.

Note: it should be mentioned–the entire animal kingdom hates boy bands…especially badgers.

angry badgers

We’re coming for you Timberlake.

The sanctioned amount of time a bull-rider must stay on the bull is eight seconds. It was found to be the amount of time it takes the average person to look up, do a double take, gape momentarily, then utter the phrase: “would you look at what that idiot over there is doing.”

The bull-rider sneaks up behind the bull while it’s minding its own business, peeing in the dirt, enjoying a moment of quiet reflection, and he scrabbles onto the bull’s back.

The bull is then released into the arena where storms around in a state of agitation as it attempts to repel the annoyance that has so rudely interrupted his peeing.

Note: a bull in a state of agitation, closely resembles any other creature in a blind rage…or Charlie Sheen on a good day.

Meanwhile the bull-rider is being thrashed about like a rag doll.

The bull swiftly dislodges the annoyance, launching him through the air. The annoyance crashes to the ground, tumbles several feet and skids to a halt.

He displaces an impressive amount of manure filled dirt with his face.

His teeth continue on for several more feet.

As the bull-rider staggers to his feet, dazed and unsure of what’s happening, the bull finishes peeing then turns to face him.

The bull lowers its horns and beats its hooves at the dirt; a malevolent glint appears in its dark animal eyes.

As in any time of great crisis, men wearing make-up are called upon to save the day: the rodeo clowns are deployed.

They dance around the bull, taunting and mocking it (evidently the bull is not pissed-off enough yet) until they can lure the bull’s attention away from the bull-rider.

Sensing that their efforts are falling short, they form a line and belt out an N’sync medley.

The bull becomes so confused with rage that it charges into the stands and heads straight for Kim Kardashian and Kayne West, who just happen to be in attendance.

The bull gruesomely gores Kim Kardashian’s butt, which for some unexplained reason, was fully nude and oiled-up.

The crowd cheers wildly.

The bull-rider is saved; the rodeo clowns are showered with cheers and adulation. It seems that all is well, until a pack of frenzied badgers pour into the arena and savagely attack the rodeo clowns.

After several moments of shrill screams and wild chittering, the badgers flee as quickly as they appeared.

The rodeo clowns lie in the dirt, bloody and defeated, their painted on smiles betraying them.

bull

“You’re dressing oddly these days Kayne.”

Somewhere in the deep recesses of it’s mind, the bull feels a deep sense of satisfaction.

Deflate-gate and the presentation of the winning game ball!

dali deflategate

Following the success of Spending Quality Time With Known Felons in a Dimly Lit Bar (less death threats than usual) here is another guess post from Another Idiot. Enjoy.

For as long as I can remember, it has been customary in the NFL to present the game ball to the team member that was most responsible for the win. Football is an American tradition, the most popular sport, and one of my favorite pass-times. Every year football fans yearn for midsummer after waiting several months during the off season in anticipation of a winning season for their favorite team, and a possible playoff berth. For most of us we end up disappointed in our favorite team’s inability to continue to the end of the season, and win a Super Bowl. It seems to reason that teams will have ups and downs, good years and bad, streaks of fortune and misfortune.
However, some teams seem to always be in the hunt, and never have an off-season no matter what their personnel situation is. They are always in the playoffs, and always have a shot at a Lombardi trophy. If you haven’t guessed it by now; I’m talking about the New England Patriots.
Attention: If you are a New England Patriot’s fan, move forward with extreme caution! You may want to regress back to the home page. Further entry into this document may cause extreme feelings; especially if you don’t have a sense of humor. You may not be ready to witness what the following passage has to offer. The below listed side effects may occur if you continue to peruse this document. (Cheesy disclaimers work for medication, why not a blog?)

Conditions caused by this passage that may be harmful to Patriot fans:

  • Bulging veins.
  • Double vision.
  • Blurred vision
  • Clenching of fists.
  • fisticuffs.
  • Cufflink wearing.
  • Heavy drinking.
  • Heavy lifting.
  • Heavy smoking.
  • Heavy thinking, (well, probably not).
  • Binge eating.
  • Binge drinking.
  • Excess binging.
  • Moderate binging.
  • Redundancy.
  • Oxymoron.
  • And many other ill effects that could alter your personality, and life styles too numerous to list.

So if you are a New England Patriot’s fan, you have been warned. It’s still not too late to turn back.
As we cheer for our teams, we take pride in their accomplishments. There is a certain amount of ethics and morals that go into the standards in which the game is played. We don’t tolerate cheating, and a certain amount of disdain is fostered towards those athletes who decide that winning took precedence over ethics of the game.

I’m talking about the New England Patriot’s deflate-gate and spy gate. The patriots have been caught red handed, cheating; and twice, (in my humble opinion), they have gotten off easy. The first incident was the “Spy Gate” of 2007 where the Patriots were videotaping other teams signal calling during the game. Coach Belichick was fined $500,000 the maximum, the team fined $250,000, and the loss of their first draft choice. It was discovered that the team had used this practice since 2000. The second was Tom Brady being suspended for four games for violating the rule of 12.5 to 13.5 PSI air pressure in the game balls in 2014. What do both these incidents have in common? Both years the Patriots were playing in a Super Bowl, and both years they were caught cheating.

Other teams who cheated and were given admonishment from the NFL:
-Mike Tomlin, Pittsburgh’s head coach, stepped on field to disrupt play, fined $100,000. He apologized and put it behind him.
-Ray Farmer, Cleveland’s GM fined $250,000 and suspended four games for texting his coach during a game.
-New Orleans Saints bounty gate, Head coach suspended one year, defensive coordinator suspended indefinitely, GM suspended eight games, assistant head coach suspended six games, Vilma suspended 2012 season, Anthony Hargrove suspended eight games, Will Smith suspended four games, and Scott Fujita three game suspension, $500,000 fine and loss of 2nd round draft picks in 2012 and 2013 seasons, (their first round pick was traded away to NE).
-Falcons fined $350,000 for pumping noise into the stadium, and lost 5th round draft in 2016.
-Penn State: too much to list, (they never cheated; they had a sick individual on their college coaching staff who caused the entire system to suffer for years). You know the story.

List of possible admonishments for the New England Patriots for Deflate-gate:
Real list: Suspend Tom Brady for 1 Year

idiotprufs’ list: Force Brady to dress as a mime and stay in character
(Four games isn’t enough) for 1 year during the 2016 football season.

Real list: Suspend Belichick indefinitely

idiotprufs’ list: Force Belichick to dress as a mime and stay in
character indefinitely.

Real list: Fire the equipment managers.

idiotprufs’ list: Promote the equipment managers to GM, and allow
them unconditional access to the equipment room.

Real list: Forfeit playoff availability for one year.

idiotprufs’ list: NFL forfeit the New England Patriots for one year.

Real list: Robert Kraft forced to sell team.

idiotprufs’ list: New England is forced to sell Girl Scout cookies, (they
are really good cookies, especially PB).

bill-belichick-deflategate-meme

In light of “SPY GATE”, the length of time the Patriots’ conducted it and got away with it; it is perplexing to me that they aren’t suspected of continuing the practice to this day. After seeing them come from behind on numerous occasions after half-time, it is fishy that they miraculously seem to know what the other team is going to do, and their opponents seem to have no answer to this conundrum. The Buffalo Bills beat the Patriots in 2011, 34-31 after leading at the half 21-0. The Bills QB claimed that they changed their signal calling after the half to confuse New England; it worked. The Patriots looked confused, as if they expected the plays to be totally different. I’m surprised other teams haven’t adopted this practice.
Things teams could do to beat the New England Patriots
1) Over-inflate the game balls.
2) Learn New England’s signal calls and change strategy at the half.
3) Change their signals after the half to the opposite of what they were in the first half.
4) Pay the refs more than New England.
5) Sell the Patriots Ex-lax laced Girl Scout cookies; (this is extremely cruel, as no one should mess with Girl Scout cookies, especially the peanut butter).
6) Pay a bounty to the defense.
7) Pump noise into the stadium.
8) Text your coach during the game. (I’m not sure how this would work, but it must somehow; it’s illegal. Anyway, millions of teenagers couldn’t be wrong).
9) Pretend the refs are mimes and ignore them. Their outfits are sort of similar.
10) Step near the field of play and jump back at the last second; it works every time.

So in closing, I think the game ball from the New England Super Bowl win should be presented to the equipment manager’s Jim McNally and John Jastranski. The Colts probably wouldn’t have won that game, it was too one sided. However, the Ravens lost 35-31 in the January weather in New England; deflated balls and knowing the other team’s plays after the half may have been enough to turn the tide of the game in New England’s favor.patriots super bowl ring

It’s a Tradition: Memorial Day Post

 

american_legion_logo1

It’s a tradition. This is the third year I’m posting this on Memorial Day weekend for two specific reasons:

  1. I like it.
  2. Unapologetic laziness.

Years ago I worked at an American Legion post. I met a lot of people during my time there. Some of them were ordinary people, some were interesting, some were bizarre and some were bizarrely interesting.

One of the more interesting people was Jack.

Jack constantly spoke in non sequiturs. At first I thought that he was simply hard of hearing, but I began to realize there was a thread of continuity in the things he was saying. His conversations would go off in seemingly weird and irrelevant tangents, but they generally made it back to their original points.

I’ve often wished that I had written some of them down, unfortunately I’m a moron.

Here are a few of my favorites that haven’t been lost to my faulty memory:

Jack: I remember when I paid only ten dollars a week for rent.

Other patron: We don’t live in the fifties anymore Jack.

Jack: What! (slamming his fist against the bar in indignation) I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years.

Other patron: What?

Jack: I’d rather pay for my truck insurance than ride a bicycle.

Other patron: Again, what?

Jack: I can barely afford to pay my for rent and my truck insurance.

Or this one:

Me: Do you want another beer Jack?

Jack: (giving me a dismissive wave): I don’t know anyone named Dan.

Me: Firstly, I asked you if wanted another beer. Secondly, what about Dan sitting there right next to you?

Jack: (looking at Dan suspiciously) His last name isn’t White.

Me: So?

Jack: Then why would someone named Dan White want to buy me a beer?

Me: Obviously he wouldn’t, I can’t believe I’ve behaved so foolishly.

But this was my favorite:

Me: How are you doing today Jack?

Jack: You’re nuts!

Me: I hesitate to ask, but apart from the obvious, why do say that?

Jack: My wife was never an Eskimo.

Yeah, I still have no idea.

Eskimo

Probably not Jack’s wife.

But of all the interesting people I met, John was the most interesting.

John had a lot of stories to tell and a keen willingness to tell them, under one condition: you had to keep a cold rum and coke in front of him. He needed the proper “lubrication” to keep the vocal chords going.

John was man in his late eighties but still very spry. He had a weird sense of humor, which was probably a good thing because his wife seemed to have none at all. She was a surly woman who I never saw smile; John was never without one.

John was a rifle bearer for the Honor Guard. One day after performing their duties, the members of the Honor Guard were returning to the post to have a few drinks together, as was their custom.

John walked calmly up to bar in full dress uniform, carrying his rifle, and wearing his eye-patch (John had to occasionally wear an eye-patch because of condition he had. He claimed he wore so he didn’t see double after he’s had a few too many) and stood there with a slight impish grin on his face.

He looked like pirate.

He then quickly pulled the rifle to his shoulder and discharged it toward the back of the bar.

The crack of the rifle echoed through the hall. If you’ve never heard a rifle discharged in a building, it’s loud. Beer flew into air, drinks were spilled, people scattered, some hit the floor. Even though I knew it was only a blank, it was still jarring to have a weapon discharged in your general direction.

A cloud of smoke hung in air the along with the pungent smell of spent gun powder. For a moment after the echo of the rifle had disappeared there was total silence. Then there chaos. Some people were laughing; some people were not. Some people were cursing, especially John’s wife, who unleashed a stream of foul language that to this day, I am certain has never been matched.

Once I made sure I still a whole person, I laughed, maybe as hard as I ever had in my life.

He later told me he thought it would be funny.

“When isn’t heart failure funny,” I told him.

John was reprimanded by the post, but that didn’t bother him. In fact, I’m not sure I ever saw anything bother him.

John was there that day on June 6th 1944. It’s estimated that 2,500 allied soldiers lost their lives on D-Day… but John didn’t. He had to hang around long enough to nearly scare me to death.

So this Memorial Day weekend, I’m dedicating this blog post to Jack, John and every other veteran who is no longer with us.

Spring 2015: More Mooning Garden Gnomes.

 

idiotprufs, prickly weed

The prickly weed; a very under appreciated weed.

The signs of spring are all around you:

  • The temperature has warmed.
  • The sound of birds chirping in the morning has replaced the sound of snow blowers and the guy across the street complaining bitterly as he scrapes the ice from his car.
  • And the sound of his cursing as another ice-scraper breaks off in his hand and he yells, “that’s it, I’m leaving this God forsaken weather and I’m going to Texas,” as shakes his fist at the sky.
  • Soon to replaced by his cursing as he scrapes bird crap from his windshield as he shakes his fist at the sky.
  • The final remnants of where Gerald the neighbor kid, wrote insults to you in the snow with his pee, are finally melting away. That kid has a vivid imagination and a huge bladder.
  • Your neighbor will begin work on his annual garden. In the coming months, he will regale you with baskets of fresh vegetables. He will explain to you that his garden has produced so overwhelmingly, that his own family couldn’t possibly consume all the bounty themselves. Smug Jerk.
  • Your other neighbor has once again placed a mooning garden gnome, Willard #6, facing your kitchen window.

A quick recap of the history of the Willards

  • Willard met an untimely demise at the hands of a maniac with a shovel.
  • Willard #2 was also smashed with a shovel.
  • Willard #3 was backed over by a car and smashed with a shovel.
  • Willard #4 was hit with a brick, peed on, and smashed with a shovel.
  • Upon swearing to your neighbor and the local authorities, that you had nothing to do with the dispatching of the previous Willards, and under no circumstance would you attack an innocent garden gnome with a shovel, Willard #5 took his proper place facing your kitchen window.
  • Willard #5 was smashed with a hammer.
  • Willard #6 now stands proudly baring his buttocks toward your kitchen window. He is protected by flood lights and a security camera…for now.

You begin to make preparations for Spring yourself:

  • You drain and fill in the moat you dug the previous Spring. Gerald the neighbor kid, took swimming lessons over the Winter, and the cold weather killed all the piranha anyway.
  • You plant a vegetable garden of your own, regardless of the fact that your touch seems to destroy life.
  • You take down the sign that some smart aleck placed by your garden that read: Potter’s Field.
  • The local nursery places a picture of you on the their wall labeled: The Grim Reaper.
  • Gerald the neighbor kid mockingly asks you what kind of plants you plan to kill this year.
  • You look into the purchase of an electrified fence.
  • Your gardening neighbor assures you he’ll have plenty of extra vegetables to give you, after your garden has shriveled up and blown away like blades of grass in the Sahara Desert. “I’ll give you some tomatoes, zucchini, squash, maybe even a few cukes,” he tells you.
  • You try to think of a clever response, but you’re not clever.
  • “You’re a cuke,” you finally yell, long after your neighbor has left.
  • You focus on growing the only things that seem to flourish under your care: weeds.
  • Your plot of weeds thrives, especially the prickly weeds.
  • Your home is raided by the DEA after they receive an anonymous tip about you “growing weed.” They find nothing illegal, but your precious weeds are trampled.
  • You buy a rifle. You know who the anonymous tipster was, and it’s time for Willard #6 to pay.

Note: oddly, Sea-Monkeys also do well under your care.

 

idiotprufs mooning gnome

This is practically a bullseye.

The Great Broccoli Fiasco

broccoliApart from a few facts that may be the products of my faulty memory, this story is completely true.

It came from the kitchen, and it was horrendous. It stung your nostrils, and it turned your stomach.

Note: my roommate’s name in this story was Al, but for the sake of brevity and ease, I will be referring to him simply as: Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man.

Me: what is that horrendous smell?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it’s probably me.

Me: it is a sickening and repulsive stench, but it’s a different kind of sickening and repulsive stench.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: I think it’s coming from the refrigerator.

Me: but there’s nothing in the refrigerator apart from a bottle of ketchup, some old pizza, and mysterious yellow stain that seems to move about on its own.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: the stain scares me; it’s shaped like a spider.

Me: (opening the refrigerator door, only to be staggered by the smell) holy crap, it is coming from the refrigerator.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it must be the anchovies on that left over pizza; they taste like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

Me: well, I’ll have to defer to your expertise in ass related matters.

Note: anchovies are lumps of decaying fish, infused with all of the salt in the world–they’re delicious.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: I know how to get rid of it.

He grabbed the pizza box from the fridge and hurled it onto the roof below the kitchen window of our apartment.

Me: brilliant.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: of course it’s brilliant; I’m the one who did it.

Me: your brilliance is only matched by your humility.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it’s my humility that makes me great.

Me: you are a walking oxymoron.

So the problem was solved…or was it?

Not only did the odor not dissipate, it grew in strength.

The next day:

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: why hasn’t the smell gone away?

Me: it wasn’t the anchovies.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: anchovies taste like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

Me: we have to do something; air fresheners won’t cover it up.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: air fresheners won’t cover up the ass-end of rhinoceros?

Me: probably not, but I was referring specifically to the smell in the kitchen.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: well we’ve checked everywhere.

Me: is there anything in the vegetable crisper?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: the what?

Me: the drawer where you keep the vegetables.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: the what now?

Me: I’ll show you.

I slid open the vegetable crisper to reveal a bowl of expired broccoli and possibly the most rancid smell that has ever stimulated my olfactory senses.

Me: how can vegetables possibly smell that bad?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: I didn’t even know that drawer was there.

Me: we have to get rid of them.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: I have an idea.

So Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man grabbed the bowl of tainted broccoli and flushed it down the toilet.

The problem was solved…or was it.

It seems pouring a bowl full of broccoli down a toilet is the equivalent of pouring a bucket full of concrete down a toilet; it was a mess. There was literally a waterfall of human waste pouring down the kitchen wall of the downstairs neighbor.

She was unhappy…loudly.

A few days later we had a typical western New York snowstorm which dropped about four feet of snow on us.

The landlord came to shovel the snow from the roof outside our kitchen window. He struggled with something that was solidified to the roof. It turned out to a pizza with anchovies.

He was unhappy…loudly.

Note: if you were unaware: anchovies smell like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

rhino butt

A Permanent Cure For Athlete’s Foot (With a Few Slight Side Effects)

One test subject; look how freaking happy he is.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

I’ve finally done it.

I’ve developed a permanent and foolproof cure for athlete’s foot.

It’s brilliant in its concept, and elegant in its simplicity.

For the small cost of just $99.99, (with an unreasonably exorbitant shipping and handling cost, which I will inform of after you’ve made the purchase) I will send you my product.

The kit includes the following items:

  • A high quality hacksaw.
  • A tourniquet guaranteed to stop spurting blood.
  • A bottle of aspirin.
  • A finely crafted peg leg.

Note: For a small additional cost, I will send you the jumbo sized bottle of aspirin, you’re probably going to need it. If you should happen to have any morphine lying around the house, that would be good too.

Imagine all the ways that using my product can make your life better:

  • You’ll never again have to deal with the burning scourge of athlete’s foot.
  • You’ll never again slip on the ice and sprain your ankle. You might slip on the ice and break your neck, but you won’t sprain your ankle.
  • You’ll never again stub your toe on a piece of furniture as you stumble toward the bathroom in the middle of the night.
  • You’ll never again spend the night on the couch after yelling at your spouse/girlfriend/lodger for moving a piece of furniture.
  • You can’t “ruin” Thanksgiving by dropping a frozen turkey on your aunt’s foot (if she’s used my product).

Note: your aunt’s presence has already ruined Thanksgiving; she’s an ogre.

  • You can dress up as a pirate on Halloween.
  • Mahogany peg legs are super classy.

There are a few slight drawbacks in the use of my product; all of which, I will inform you of in tiny unreadable print that scrolls across the bottom of screen at light speed.

Some of these slight problems are:

  • Massive loss of blood can make you woozy.
  • Carpenter ants are tenacious.
  • So are termites.
  • Dry rot.
  • Anal sores. (I have no idea why this happens-it just does.)
  • Beavers might steal your leg and incorporate it in the construction of a dam. (It happens more than you would think.)
  • Woodpeckers.
  • Mole holes in the backyard become especially hazardous.
  • You can’t drop a frozen turkey on your aunt’s foot. Secretly, you really did enjoy that; she’s an ogre.
  • It cuts the exorbitant cost of sock purchases in half.
  • Christian Bale will come to your home and hurl insults at you; he’s kind of a dick.
  • Your golf game may suffer a bit. And groundskeepers tend to get really pissy about the imprints that a peg leg leaves on the putting green.
  • Splinters.
  • The snide, hey Yellowbeard where’s your parrot, remarks from your coworkers.
  • Truthfully: I have very little concern for the efficacy of this product or your actual well-being.

All I need now is approval from the FDA. Unfortunately this has been far more difficult than I had anticipated. The people at the FDA are really uptight and condescending, and they tend to throw around words like irresponsible and unthinkable, a great deal more than is necessary.

It’s been a long process, but according to one source from the FDA, all I’m waiting on now is a cold day in Hell.

My product would result in another happy customer, and a tasty appetizer.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

I have also been working on a permanent cure for jock itch. Those results haven’t been quite as promising.

(image source: wpclipart.com)

The Stupid Need not Apply

So you need to find a job, but you interview poorly because of the following problems:

You have poor verbal skills; your speech basically consists of a series of grunts and clicks.

You get nervous in pressure filled situations; you sweat profusely, get dizzy, and blackout as you mumble incoherently about your collection of soap carvings.

You are sloppy and ill-mannered; you think Larry the Cable Guy’s a little too uptight.

You make a bad first impression.

You make a bad second impression.

Your third impression is just dreadful.

Your fourth impression is slightly better than your third.

But the fifth time people meet you they snap and attack you with a claw hammer.

You smell funny: like beets and goat urine.

And finally: you’re remarkably stupid.

So in light of these shortcomings, I’m going to aid you in your quest for employment with some helpful hints to get you through that daunting job interview.

Things you should not wear to a job interview:

  • A belt buckle that reads: The Boss Sucks.
  • Your “I’m too drunk to care” t-shirt.
  • That shirt you own that has a mustard stain shaped like Jiminy Cricket.
  • That shirt you own that has a ketchup stain shaped like Donald Duck.
  • Any shirt, with any stain, shaped like any Disney character.
  • That sombrero you’re so proud of.
  • Your alligator boots. (This applies if you’re interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your lucky pair of pants. They may be lucky, but the hole in the crotch isn’t doing you any favors.
  • Your eye patch. Yes, it makes you look dangerous and cool, but don’t.
  • Your Omar Moreno wig. Yes, it’s hysterical, but don’t.
omar moreno hair

It’s hysterical, but don’t.

Things not to do on a job interview:

  • Turn every innocuous statement into a double entendre by responding with the phrase: that’s what she said.
  • Bring in Leonard, your pet lizard, because you think the interviewer might enjoy seeing how a lizard can devour an entire rat.
  • Bring in Wilbur, your pet wombat, because you think the interviewer might be fascinated by how much a wombat can crap.
  • Bad-mouth your previous employer using phrases such as, weasel-faced penis, rat-fink, or tiny brained flea.
  • Punctuate the tirade about how unfairly your previous employer treated by saying, “of course, I was stealing from the company to finance my crystal meth habit.”
  • Nod toward a picture of your interviewer’s wife, give him a knowing wink and say, “sweet.”
  • Don’t lean into your interviewer, carefully study his face, and then say, “a good plastic surgeon could fix that.”
  • Don’t try to show your interviewer how clever you are by guessing her age and weight.
  • Don’t ask your interviewer if he’s prematurely gray, or just dirt-old.
  • Don’t recommend a good wrinkle cream.
  • Under no circumstance should you ask your interviewer to “smell this.”
  • Don’t do anything the voices in your head tell you to do; they don’t have your best interest in mind.
  • Don’t introduce your interviewer to Phineas, your imaginary friend.
  • Don’t tell your interviewer that Phineas thinks he smells good.
  • Don’t demonstrate your conscientiousness by pointing out that you’re waiting until after the interview to get stoned.

Note: The following is an actual conversation I had with a man who was dropping off his resume at a place where I used to work:

Man: Is there someone here that I can talk to about a job?

Me: The plant manager does the hiring, but he isn’t here today.

Man: So I can’t talk to anyone today?

Me: Sorry.

Man: But I made sure not to get stoned today.

Me: That’s very conscientious of you; I’ll add a note to your resume.

Man: You make sure you do that.

That man wasn’t even considered for a position; does honesty count for nothing anymore?

Things not to put on your resume:

Under other interests:

  • Your plot to overthrow the government and replace it with a puppet regime. And the fact that the puppets are Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.
  • Discussing your alien abduction, and various alien probing methods.
  • Your collection of shrunken heads.
  • Scrapbooking.
  • Hunting the world’s most dangerous prey: humans.
  • Miming.

Note: hunting mimes and shrinking their heads is acceptable…and if you should happen to scrapbook about it…whatever.

Under accomplishments:

  • Your swift rise to power as president of the Justin Bieber fan club.
  • Finishing at the top of your taxidermy class. (Again, this mostly applies if your interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your fluency in Klingon.
  • Having been a cast member of any television show with the words “the housewives of” in the title.

Final and key piece of advice:

Just don’t be yourself.

bad interview

Don’t do this.

Nutella or Montague: What’s in a Name?

nutella

A delicious snack, but a terrible name for a French child.

According to Ole Bill Shakespeare what you call a thing doesn’t alter its nature; “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” and all that.

Note: not to give anything away, but regardless of the lovely sentiment, things didn’t end well for Juliet.

It seems a court in Northern France disagrees with the Bard of Avon, and has taken a tough stance toward families who give their children odd names.

When one couple in Valenciennes tried to call their child Nutella, the shocked registrar immediately informed the local prosecutor, who took the case to court in the northern city. (But not before first making himself a quick snack, Nutella really is delicious.)

The judge argued that giving the child the name of a chocolate spread was against the girl’s interests as it might lead to mockery and unpleasant remarks. “Children can horribly cruel to other children who happen to have odd names,” the Honorable Peanut Butter N. Jelly told the court as he wiped a tear of remembrance from his eye. “Besides, her surname is already French, isn’t that bad enough?”

Note: Since my name, Shampoe, is also French, I’m allowed that last part.

The parents did not turn up at the hearing in November, and in their absence the judge ruled that the girl’s name should be shortened from Nutella to Ella. Her full name is now a much more respectable Ella Phant Butt. “Let’s see school children just try to make fun of that,” the court said.

The same court in Valenciennes made similar arguments in January this year before overturning the decision of another couple to name their child Fraise, the French word for strawberry.

The judge said that in particular the girl might face derision from people using the uncouth expression “ramène ta fraise” – a slang saying that translates as “get your a– over here.”

The parents opted instead for Fraisine, an elegant name popular in the 19th century which roughly translates as “get your non-strawberry a– over here.”

“French parents can choose whatever name they want for their offspring,” a registrar said, “but we will occasionally seek to ban or change a moniker that might be deemed against the child’s interests…or if we’re bored, or someone’s just being a real prick about things.”

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” said known prick Jacques Faucheux, father of court renamed Flaccid Penis Faucheux.

A family was told in 2009 that they could not name their child after the French cartoon character Titeuf.

titeuf

French cartoon character Titeuf–forget the name, I want my children to have that hairstyle.

Note: I’ve never been more glad to live in the United States; I fully plan to name my child, Magilla Gorilla Shampoe, and I don’t want the courts messing around with my daughter’s name.

Magilla

The name Magilla Gorilla just oozes class.

But the French courts don’t reserve this right for just human names. A dog owner in eastern France has been forced to change the names of his dogs, Itler and Iva, because they clearly “make people think of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun.”

The unnamed owner argued that the names, Itler and Iva, had nothing to do with Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun. He grudgingly changed his dogs’ names to Iliso and Isio 4, but admitted he probably shouldn’t have shaved the swastikas into their fur.

And finally, in France you cannot call a pig Napoleon, due to a law aimed at preserving the image of the Emperor which remains on the statute books.

For shame George Orwell. For shame.

Animal Farm

Napoleon from George Orwell’s Animal Farm. For shame George Orwell.

 Addendum:

Jacques Faucheux has petitioned the court to have his son’s name (Flaccid Penis Faucheux) changed. He was a real prick about it.

The court granted his petition, and changed his son’s name to My-Fathers-A-Prick Faucheux.

Another petition is pending.

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